Bulky

Bulky

In the corner of the flat, a sofa sighs, its cushions swelling like a weekend tide, fabric stretched over springs that groan when a eager dog leaps up to claim his pride.

A winter coat hangs on the hall‑stand, wool thick as a Yorkshire dales’ mist, buttons of horn, pockets deep enough to stash a map, a flask, and a wistful kiss.

The lorry rumbles down the narrow lane, its load a mountain of pallets and crates, tyres kissing the wet pavement, a slow, deliberate ballet of weight.

Even the suitcase, battered and brown, bursts at the seams with souvenirs, socks rolled tight, a guidebook folded, memories packed in layers of years.

Bulky is not merely size, it is the heft of stories carried, the quiet strength in objects that hold our lives, our journeys, our worries.